


The Consequences of Getting What You Want

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Brief Violence, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: Why John really beat Bob Wooler up at Paul's birthday partyOriginally posted on Livejournal





	The Consequences of Getting What You Want

I felt his breath before I heard his words. “Lennon.” The alcohol on him invaded my senses and made me shiver. “Back from your holiday with Epstein so soon?”

“Fuck off, Bob.” I was already shaky with booze. Paul’s family idled around us, while Paul still smooth-talked the little redhead he’s been so keen on. Cynthia was talking to some old auntie and my drink was still in my hand while Bob’s voice kept resounding in my head. 

“Nah, mate, come on, give us the dirty details!” He stepped in front of me and flashed his crooked teeth. “I mean, we all know what happened. I’d like to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Though straight…” He looked at my lips. “May not be the operative word.”

My head pulsed, anger rushing faster than blood through my veins. “Nothing happened,” I repeated for the fiftieth time since I’d returned from Barcelona. “No-fucking-thing.”

“We both know that isn’t true, John.” Bob’s voice dropped, and his eyes flirted with mine. “It was only a matter of time before Brian had you. Queer like yourself. Fucking catch, ain’t ya?”

It was getting harder to stand on two feet. It was getting harder to not punch Bob Wooler smack in the middle of his leering goddamn face. People were beginning to look. Paul managed to turn away from his conquest to stare at me; his body tensed as if he knew what I wanted to do and he would be ready to spring into action if I did. “If you say another word, I’m going make sure that you’ll be pissing blood for a week,” I snarled. The shakes were getting worse.

“Not the first time you’ve been occupied with my cock, has it, Jo—”

My fist connected with his jaw and I felt something break, inside his mouth, inside my hand, inside my mind. Shut him up, my thoughts screamed, gotta shut him fucking up! The women around me cried out with shock, and I could hear Cynthia yelling my name, but Bob’s mouth was still intact. He spat blood at my face, his eyes proclaiming that I was nothing but a hateful cocksucker. I pounced him, my traitorous body recognizing the form beneath me and reacting. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I spat back at him. The words couldn’t leave my mouth quick enough; they felt like poison on my tongue. This man had known my poison tongue, he had known my body. 

I knew him before I saw him; I’d heard his voice often enough at the Cavern. Bob Wooler, master of ceremonies and master of who was fucking _in_. And I wanted in. His voice came up behind me at the pub, greeting everyone he knew and everyone he didn’t. I slouched over a pint, and my cock thickened in the jeans Mimi had just laundered for me, now tight with the excitement of the thought of doing this, of actually doing this. The rest of my drink sloshed down my throat and I lit a fag before sauntering over to the bar, right next to Wooler himself. I was taller than him. It felt good.

“Two pints, mate,” I ordered and I grinned at Bob, winning him over, I was sure. “All right?”

He looked me up and down. “I know you, son?”

You know me, of course you fucking know me, you shit-eating—“I’m with the band that played the Cavern the other night. The Beatles?”

Recognition lit up his eyes. “The Beatles! Beatles with an ‘a,’ right, ‘course I remember! You kids were good.”

I snorted. “We’re the best and we’re not kids. I’m almost twenty-one. But I have trouble telling younger people’s ages apart too. Must be a side-effect of old age, eh, granddad?”

Bob grinned at me, and took a swig of the drink I had bought for him. “Cheeky, ain’t ya?”

“All cheek, all talent.” I drank hard and fast. I needed to be drunk. 

Many beers later, his hand wandered to mine, only just touching. “You’ve been trying to get me drunk, eh, Lennon?”

I was drunker than he was and I gave him my most seductive smile, even though fear told me that I just looked like a madman. “Why would I try to do that, Bob? Not tryin’ to rob ya, or anything like that…”

“What do you want, hm?” I could barely hear him over the roar of the pub, but I could hear his hand on my knee. “That?”

“That.” I exhaled a cloud of smoke, easy to disguise my nerves.

“Then let’s take _that_ outside. Shall we?”

I let him lead me to the back alley; I knew how to do this, I’d been with enough boys in Hamburg. But those were boys. Bob was a man, a man already tugging at his belt.

He glanced at me, a patronizing look gazing me over. “Well, get on your knees.”

I did as I was told, slightly stung that I wouldn’t even be kissed, but I shook it off as I took Bob’s prick into my hand. I was not a fucking queer. I did not need to be kissed by men. The concrete was hard on my knees and there might have been granules of broken bottles digging through my clean trousers, but that didn’t stop me from taking Bob’s cock into my mouth.

His fingers gripped my hair. “That’s it, John. Mm, that’s it, you know what to do. I love that you know what to do.” He was a talker, but it spurred me on. My own cock hardened as I sucked and licked and listened to Bob tell me what a good job I was doing.

“I loved watching you boys the other night. What a fucking hot band you are. You didn’t strike me as the queer one then though. I thought it was your little friend. The one with the eyebrows. Paul.”

_Paul._ I sucked harder, not trusting anything that would come out of my mouth. 

“Caught him with his hand up a girl’s knickers in the loo though,” Bob laughed. It was breathy and it caught as I licked the big vein on the underside of his dick. “Must be hard being in a group with a pretty boy like that. Especially a boy you can’t fuck.”

Stop talking, stop talking about Paul, please stop talking about Paul. I was painfully hard and thinking about my best mate, with his big cow eyes and perfect dick sucking lips and amazing arse…

“Does he know, John?” I didn’t answer, how could I, so Bob yanked my hair until my eyes met his. “Does he even know?” He laughed again; I must have looked absurd with my mouth so full of cock and my eyes so full of anxiety. “Of course he doesn’t. Probably wouldn’t want to see you anymore if he knew what you did. Probably beat you black and blue. How many times have you ‘accidentally’ touched him? Or gotten him to wank with you? It’d all make sense then.”

I choked, gagging around Bob’s cock and pulling away to cough out the bitter truths he had stumbled upon. “Up yer,” I croaked. “You don’t know anything.”

In seconds, he hoisted me onto my feet and cold brick dug into my back while his cock rubbed against my thigh. “But I know everything, don’t I, John?” Bob teased, smirking at me in the darkness. He rubbed me, and I moaned. His fingers found my flesh too soon and I fell against him, panting and sweating like a bitch in heat. “For instance, I know if I pull your trousers down and stick my prick up your arse, you’re not going to fight me. I know you’re going to beg for it.”

My trousers were wrenched down to my thighs and my face scraped against the bricks. I couldn’t help it—I moaned. “Bob, please…”

I felt his smile. “Please what?”

My pride was shriveling at an alarming pace, but I obeyed. “Please fuck me!”

There was a light pop behind me, and I knew what it had been when his spit-wet fingers touched my hole. “You’ve done this before, yeah? I’m not going to hurt you?”

“Thought you knew everything,” I leered, and was rewarded with a slap on my ass. 

“Cheeky, Lennon.” He wormed inside of me, and I shut my eyes, letting my breath warm the bricks in front of me. I was doing this, I was really doing this. 

He only gave me two fingers before positioning my hips so I could take his cock. I had to bite my hand to keep from crying out. It wasn’t a lie when I said I had done this before, but with only a thin layer of saliva easing the way, it burned and I had the fleeting image of ripping from Bob Wooler’s dick.

“Cor, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deep. “But I know you weren’t lying. Virgins don’t take it that easily. Never realized you were a slut though.”

“I’m not—I’m not—”

“Don’t fucking lie.” His words were punctuated with his thrusts inside me. “Nice boys don’t do this, John. Tough little teddy boys don’t do this. Only whores and sluts do this. But…” He grabbed my cock and gave it a rough stroke. “Whores don’t like it as much as this.” It took all my restraint to keep from slamming my hips into the wall when he hit that sweet spot inside me. “So what are you, John?”

“I’m not say-_aying_ it!” I was having enough trouble speaking as it was.

“You say it and I’ll let your little band play the Cavern every damn day if you want.” 

I nearly came. “You have to _swear_.” 

“Swear, Lennon. Now tell me what you are.” 

"A sluh—A slut.” My eyelids fell shut in humiliation, but Bob loved it. He laughed and his thrusts came faster, shallower. 

“Say it again.”

“I’m a slut!” I wailed, shame washing over me but it was no use against my impending orgasm. “I’m a slut!” 

“That’s it, little slut,” Bob grunted, and gave my cock only two more rough strokes before I stained the redbrick wall in front of me. 

Bob’s body slammed into mine and I could feel his jism inside of me. When he pulled out, it dripped down my legs. I didn’t look at him. The fearsome anger and the irreverent quips I protected myself with wouldn’t do me any good right now. 

He lit up a fag, and offered me one, which I accepted without a word. “Come on down to the club tomorrow,” he said, pulling his trousers back up. “We’ll work some business out. Bring Paul if you like.” 

I wouldn’t bring Paul and I didn’t. Bob and I met the next day and I knew that his eyes still remembered the way my hands looked as I scrabbled at the wall, the way I stood with my trousers down, remembered the way I sounded when I said the words he told me to say. He stayed true to his promise of getting us the most cherry deals and I could smirk at him, knowing I had come out on top. The gigs were mine, mine and Paul’s. Not his. 

Paul’s face nearly split down the middle from his grin when I told him to get his kit, we were playing the Cavern again. “I knew we’d get ‘em, John!” he crowed. Beautiful bastard. I wouldn’t tell him that it was my arse instead of us, instead of him. 

Bob would keep looking at me though. It thrilled me and it chilled me… He wanted me again. But Paul stood right next to me, his mouth so close to mine, his body vibrating with the chords we played. Wooler, the dirty fucker, he’d want to take me to the sordid loo, his cramped office, to the dark alley again. He’d use my ass and call me a slut and taunt me about how much I wished he were Paul. And I _did_. 

“Good job tonight, lads,” he said, clapping Paul on the shoulder and grinning at me. George and Stuart fiddled about with their guitars in the corner of our tiny dressing room. Pete was still struggling to lug his drums off the stage; no one bothered to help him. “Could’ve mopped the floor with all those wet knickers you caused, eh?”

Paul laughed—he liked him, the idiot. He knew it was important to get on his good side and no one could be as charming as Paul. If he used his ass, every door in the business would be open to us. It didn’t stop my chest from tightening, jealousy nipping at me like some stray dog. He babbled to Bob about how much he loved the Cavern, how much he loved music, how much he loved the Beatles… He was in love with everything except me. I jammed my cigarette into the wall and immediately started another, glaring at the conceited beautiful prick and the dirty bastard who was sizing him up. 

Paul glanced at me, fresh cigarette in hand. “All right, John?” Shit. He fucking knew me too well. I only grunted in response. 

“You’ve got a hell of a band here, son,” Bob said to Paul, “but hang onto that one.” He gestured to me, eyes catching in the dim light. “He’s got fucking talent. Believe me, he has got fucking talent.” 

The fag nearly crushed in my fist. Bastard, bastard, you fucking _bastard_. I needed to scream and punch and destroy everything in my path until I shut Bob Wooler’s fucking mouth before he said _everything_. But I couldn’t. He knew I couldn’t. I just sat there, shooting invisible daggers at his smirking face and taking deep drag after drag to swallow the stone in my throat. Bob gave his last compliments and gave me a last smirk. It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized that Paul was staring at me and my palm was bleeding. I was digging my nails into my skin. 

“What the fuck was that about?” 

I shrugged—nonchalance was my specialty. “Likes me. Everyone knows I’ve got talent and he acknowledged it. Nice bloke.” 

“Then why do you look like you were about to kick his bloody nuts in?” His big dark eyes were eating me, and I reached for another fag before he took them away. “Answer me, John.” 

“I don’t have to put up with your shit, McCartney,” I sneered. The other boys were listening now, and my heart pounded. No one’s going to find out, no one’s going to know what I did, Bob Wooler fucked me and they’ll never know. Snatching my smokes out of Paul’s hand, I stalked off, as menacing as I could make myself. The clicking sounds of Paul’s goddamn boots followed me. No, God, please leave it, just drop it… 

He yanked the back of my leather jacket and I found myself at Paul’s mercy. “Tell me what he meant. ‘He has fucking talent.’ _Fucking_ talent, John. What the hell does that mean?” 

“Take your hands off me.” My voice was as vicious as I could manage but Paul wasn’t afraid of me anymore. “I _told_ you what he meant. Not my fault that you’re too thick to understand.” 

“I’m not _thick_, John,” he hissed. “And I know what he meant. I could see it all over your fucking face. You buggered him, didn’t you?” 

I laughed in his face—better him think that than know the truth. “You’re daft, you know that?” 

My body slammed into the wall, and I gasped, the recent treatment I’d had too recent a memory on my flesh. Paul knew the truth and he spat it in my face: “He fucked you, didn’t he?” 

“You’re fucking da—” 

He pushed me into the wall again, skull thudding with a dull rap. “Don’t say I’m daft. I know I’m right. Bob Wooler fucked your arse and now we can play the Cavern regularly. Jesus Christ, John.” Disgust perverted every beautiful feature of his face. I did this—I made Paul ugly. And the shame made me hard. 

He pulled from me and for a brief second, I thought that begging would make his face go back to normal. But my mouth never opened. He knew. It was suddenly like Paul had been there, watching me on my knees and against the alley wall. 

“You fucking shit.” His voice quivered with rage. “You’re just a fucking queer shit and you never said anything. You never _told_ me.” 

“Why should I fucking tell you, McCartney?!” I felt like I was screaming, though I never got any louder. “So you could act like—like _this_?” 

“All the times we shared a bed, you could have—” 

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” I snarled. “You’re not as cute as you think you are." 

“Fucking poofter. Tell me, John, did he at least buy you a drink first? Or did you offer yourself the moment he spoke to you?” 

The impotent rage inside me shook my bones and strangled the words in my throat. He shoved me again, and walked away as fast as he could, never looking back to see me fall against the wall once more. 

Paul didn’t show up for rehearsal the next day—or the next. He came on the third day, but he never looked at me, never spoke to me. But he didn’t tell anybody else. No one else had said a word to me about it; none of them had looked at me like they knew. I was safe, but I still ached for Paul. 

He began to meet my eyes again. He gradually came to stand closer to me on the stage. We finally began to write again. We never spoke about Bob Wooler. We weren’t the same but we were almost. I knew I didn’t deserve what we had before. 

“JOHN!” My wife was screaming in my ear and I realized that I held a heavy stick in my hand. Bob lay bleeding on the ground; he wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t looking at me. There were no more secrets he could tell. But was he… Did I… 

“Oh God,” I moaned. The stick fell. Brian and two men I didn’t know hauled Bob away from me, and Cynthia tugged at my arm to get me to move. I couldn’t. 

John, mate, come on, let’s go inside.” Paul replaced Cynthia, and I saw him motioning for her to wait. Numb, I let Paul lead me inside his aunt’s house and immediately gagged at the smell of leftover birthday cake. “Loo, come on.” 

Moments later, I was vomiting the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet while Paul stroked my back. He never minded touching me like this; I think he liked taking care of me. And I knew I needed taking care of. 

I vomited until I was heaving air and finally collapsed onto the floor. Paul handed me a glass of water, which I didn’t want, but he kept shoving it into my hand until I drank. “Better?” 

A shudder went through me. “No.” 

He sighed. “Jesus, John. Why’d you have to go and do a thing like that?” He was angrier, much angrier, than he looked. 

“I ruined your party…” 

“Yes, you bloody well did. You ruined my party, put Bob in the hospital, traumatized my family and probably your wife… Fucking hell, John.” He stood up, and I almost pleaded with him not to leave me. He only went to the medicine cabinet, gathering rubbing alcohol and bandages, and sat back down beside me. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” 

“I’m sorry…” Another shudder wracked my body and the tears burst from my eyes. “Oh God, Paul, I’m so sorry.” 

“Fuck, fuck, John, don’t cry!” His desperation was palpable, and he grabbed me, hugging my body to his in a way I haven’t felt in years. 

“I’m a fuck up,” I moaned. “I’ve ruined everything for you. I fucked it all up.” 

“Shh,” he whispered into my hair. “That isn’t true. You made a mistake. We do that. Bob’s going to be fine, just see.” 

“He was going at me about Brian. About being queer.” 

Paul’s hand on my back stilled. We didn’t talk about this, had never said the word after that night. “That’s why you hit him?” 

“I hate him. I never wanted you to know. I wanted you to be my mate and you wouldn’t have been if you knew." 

He let out a single sound, more sigh than laugh. “Silly sod. I’m still your friend, aren’t I?” 

“I wanted to tell you on my own. I wanted to—” Kiss you. Fuck you. Be yours. 

Paul sat me up, and dabbed my knuckles with the alcohol-soaked rag. He stroked my hand sympathetically when I hissed in pain. “I didn’t want you to know that I had been with a bloke like that. I didn’t want you to hate me.” 

Taking the bandages and wrapping it around my hand, Paul didn’t look at me when he said, “I wasn’t angry because you were queer, John. Or because you went with Bob. I was mad because I didn’t know and you never told me. Because if you were queer, it meant that… well, anyone could be.” 

I thought he was going to continue but he didn’t. He just looked at me and I understood what he was begging me to. “Are you...” 

“Don’t make me say it. Please, John, just don’t make me say it.” He took his hand from mine like it was poison and maybe it was. “I’m not, _really_. I still dig birds. I just… dig you too…” His fingers stroked his hair; I knew every tick that boy had, and he was about pissing himself for even saying these words out loud. My hand took his, and I knew that every instinct he had was telling him to pull away, but he let me. 

“I dig you too, y’know. Always.” 

He was the one who kissed me. It was too sweet, unsure, tasting like cake and beer and fags, and my heart swelled when I realized that I had been waiting over two years for a kiss that had never come from Bob Wooler. I opened my mouth and lay back to give him the option of being on top of me, which he took immediately. My mouth was tender from a few punches Bob managed to land, but Paul took special care not to hurt me more. My fingers dug themselves into his thick dark hair and I almost moaned into his mouth—I belonged here. 

A knock on the door ripped us apart, and we had just disentangled when Cynthia poked her head in. I prayed she didn’t notice our kissed lips. 

“John, we really need to go home. People are very upset outside.” 

“I’m almost done patching him up, Cyn,” Paul told her and I envied how little his voice quavered. “Have him out in a sec.” She nodded, not smiling, only giving me a hurt glance before closing the door again. 

Paul looked at my lips before returning his business to my hands. “So it’s okay?” 

“Yeah. It’s okay.” 

The bandages were wrapped and Paul pulled me up. “Is there anything we need to do about…” He made a meaningless gesture, but I knew him better than I knew anyone. If Bob knew everything, then I did too. It’s just that everything was Paul. 

I pulled his face close to mine for a last kiss. “Just that.” 


End file.
